awake. Her heart was pounding, and she could
hear her own shuddery breathing. As always, once she was awake and aware, the voice
fell silent.
That voice. God, that voice.
It had begun only a few days before, creeping into her awareness during both waking
and sleeping dreams, during vulnerable or unguarded moments. A whisper without identity,
eerily insistent. She didn’t even know whether it came from inside her…or somewhere
else. It felt alien to her, yet she couldn’t be sure it
was
—because all of this felt alien. The dreams. These frightening new abilities. The
feelings she couldn’t explain even to herself.
All she really knew was that all of it terrified her.
She pulled herself out of bed and went to take a shower, heavy-eyed after lying awake
for most of the night. It wasn’t until she came back into her bedroom and began dressing
that she heard a loud laugh and the cheerful notes of Margo’s voice.
Margo. Dear God.
Sarah knew she should have called her, of course. Last night. She should have called
her and reassured her thatit was okay, that she didn’t have to come charging back home to support her partner
and friend. Anything to keep Margo safely away from here. But Sarah’s thoughts last
night had been fixed on her own troubles—and on Tucker Mackenzie.
Real. He was real. Not a figment of her imagination. Not a face in a half-remembered
nightmare, probably formed out of random features drifting like flotsam in her subconscious.
Real. One more indication to her that the prediction of her own future was going to
come true. One more sign that it was useless to fight what had to be.
That was what she would have said—had, in fact, said—yesterday. But Tucker hadn’t
merely presented himself as a sign or a symbol or an indication. He was a real man,
and being a real man, he had his own thoughts and opinions and his own agenda. He
wanted to believe.
He wanted to believe in her.
Sarah had seen something similar more times than she could count these last months.
People with anxious voices and eager eyes and desperate smiles. Asking her, begging
her, for answers. The difference was, those people hadn’t wanted the truth. No, they
wanted answers, but only those answers that would make them feel good, or at least
better, about their problems, their lives. They wanted reassurance, comfort, hope.
They hadn’t been able to find it within their own belief system, whether that be religion
or something else. So they had come to her.
Tell me my husband forgave me before he died.
Tell me my runaway daughter isn’t walking the streets somewhere, or lying dead in
a gutter.
Tell me I’m right to choose my lover.
Tell me my mother didn’t suffer.
Tell me there’s no hell.
Tell me there is a heaven.
Tell me I have a future.
Tell me life doesn’t just end.
Tell me…please tell me…
Sarah had discovered for herself that hope was a fragile thing, difficult to hold
on to in the harsh face of day-to-day living. She blamed no one for trying to hold
on to it, or reach for it again after it had been lost or driven away. But she was
helpless to offer hope to others when all she saw was bleak and dark and violent—and
without promise.
She had expected Tucker to ask her for hope. But that wasn’t what he wanted from her.
He wanted the truth. He didn’t care whether it proved to be a dark and bleak truth.
He didn’t care whether it caused him pain. He just had to know the truth.
She could have given him most of what he wanted of her within the first hour of knowing
him. That she had not was due to several reasons. Though he would doubtless disagree
with her assessment, she knew he was not yet ready to hear the truth he needed to
hear. Not yet ready to listen and understand. Proof of that had been his shocked reaction
to the tiny glimpse of the truth she had shown him just after they said good night.
And then there was his part in the
hear her own shuddery breathing. As always, once she was awake and aware, the voice
fell silent.
That voice. God, that voice.
It had begun only a few days before, creeping into her awareness during both waking
and sleeping dreams, during vulnerable or unguarded moments. A whisper without identity,
eerily insistent. She didn’t even know whether it came from inside her…or somewhere
else. It felt alien to her, yet she couldn’t be sure it
was
—because all of this felt alien. The dreams. These frightening new abilities. The
feelings she couldn’t explain even to herself.
All she really knew was that all of it terrified her.
She pulled herself out of bed and went to take a shower, heavy-eyed after lying awake
for most of the night. It wasn’t until she came back into her bedroom and began dressing
that she heard a loud laugh and the cheerful notes of Margo’s voice.
Margo. Dear God.
Sarah knew she should have called her, of course. Last night. She should have called
her and reassured her thatit was okay, that she didn’t have to come charging back home to support her partner
and friend. Anything to keep Margo safely away from here. But Sarah’s thoughts last
night had been fixed on her own troubles—and on Tucker Mackenzie.
Real. He was real. Not a figment of her imagination. Not a face in a half-remembered
nightmare, probably formed out of random features drifting like flotsam in her subconscious.
Real. One more indication to her that the prediction of her own future was going to
come true. One more sign that it was useless to fight what had to be.
That was what she would have said—had, in fact, said—yesterday. But Tucker hadn’t
merely presented himself as a sign or a symbol or an indication. He was a real man,
and being a real man, he had his own thoughts and opinions and his own agenda. He
wanted to believe.
He wanted to believe in her.
Sarah had seen something similar more times than she could count these last months.
People with anxious voices and eager eyes and desperate smiles. Asking her, begging
her, for answers. The difference was, those people hadn’t wanted the truth. No, they
wanted answers, but only those answers that would make them feel good, or at least
better, about their problems, their lives. They wanted reassurance, comfort, hope.
They hadn’t been able to find it within their own belief system, whether that be religion
or something else. So they had come to her.
Tell me my husband forgave me before he died.
Tell me my runaway daughter isn’t walking the streets somewhere, or lying dead in
a gutter.
Tell me I’m right to choose my lover.
Tell me my mother didn’t suffer.
Tell me there’s no hell.
Tell me there is a heaven.
Tell me I have a future.
Tell me life doesn’t just end.
Tell me…please tell me…
Sarah had discovered for herself that hope was a fragile thing, difficult to hold
on to in the harsh face of day-to-day living. She blamed no one for trying to hold
on to it, or reach for it again after it had been lost or driven away. But she was
helpless to offer hope to others when all she saw was bleak and dark and violent—and
without promise.
She had expected Tucker to ask her for hope. But that wasn’t what he wanted from her.
He wanted the truth. He didn’t care whether it proved to be a dark and bleak truth.
He didn’t care whether it caused him pain. He just had to know the truth.
She could have given him most of what he wanted of her within the first hour of knowing
him. That she had not was due to several reasons. Though he would doubtless disagree
with her assessment, she knew he was not yet ready to hear the truth he needed to
hear. Not yet ready to listen and understand. Proof of that had been his shocked reaction
to the tiny glimpse of the truth she had shown him just after they said good night.
And then there was his part in the
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